


cloak-and-dagger

by ketabat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Billy Hargrove, BAMF Steve Harrington, Gun Kink, Guns, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketabat/pseuds/ketabat
Summary: It takes Billy a handful of seconds to open his eyes and lull his head to the side. AndJesus Christ,this guy’syoung.Barely older than Steve himself. Maybe fuckingyounger.He smiles, a little gentle, a lot flirty. Steve waits for the alarm to cross his features becausewhatis Steve doing here?or, steve's looking for somebody.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 15
Kudos: 185





	cloak-and-dagger

**Author's Note:**

> if you saw that i posted this a few hours ago no you didnt <3
> 
> (seriously tho, some paragraphs needed serious rephrasing)
> 
> _____

The club’s _brimming_ , bodies pressed up against each other, grinding to the beat of the pumping music, fingers tangled in hair, sultry laughter and bared necks. The atmosphere smells of sweat, liquor and sex. Of men who have grown bored of their wives, and women lusting after the danger of adultery and the need to be _seen_ and _touched.  
  
_Steve would’ve mingled a little longer had he decided to come here for pleasure, not business. So it’s with a heavy heart that he draws away from the throng of people to approach the bar. “What can I get you?” the bartender asks as Steve sits up in his stool.  
  
The bartender’s sleeves are cuffed up to his elbows, allowing Steve an eyeful of the anchor tattoo on the inside of his wrist. One of _his_ men, then. He schools his expression and looks up at the guy with a pleasant smile. “I’ll have a dry martini,” he replies, leaning in on his forearms. He nods his head to the side, in the general direction of the two bodyguards standing in the far corner of the packed club. “Boss here?”  
  
The man’s brows rise momentarily, clearly bemused for a second as his eyes flicker over Steve’s shoulder. He tongues the inside of his cheek, pushing the glass across the bar and into Steve’s hand with practiced skill. “Why you asking?” he leans forward, mirroring Steve’s posture. His tone remains professional, smiling the way every bartender does. Easy and friendly. _Guileful_.  
  
Steve takes a sip of his drink, shrugging. He’s all effortless airs when he puts his glass down, finger tracing its lip. “Was supposed to meet him an hour ago but got held back.” He states, his tone light as he looks around with incurious eyes. “Thought I’d drop by and,” he lifts his still-full glass. “Get him a drink. Y’know. Don’t wanna get on his _bad side.”  
  
_They both laugh, like it’s an inside joke of some sort, but the bartender’s shoulders slack and he nods with a smile too toothy to be insincere, as though he can _finally_ drop the _good bartender_ act and be himself. “Comin’ right up.”  
  
He leaves for less than a minute, barely giving Steve time to study his surroundings. “Here ya go.”  
  
Steve reaches for the glasses. He lets his fingers brush the bartender’s fingers, the signet stamped into one of his rings, tracing it in a way that passes as flirty. “How much?” he asks, voice dropping low. Buttery smooth. He might not be _book smart,_ but he sure as hell knows how to use his sociability to his own advantage.  
  
The bartender, whose name remains unknown, waits a beat before sliding his hand out from beneath Steve’s. “On the house,” his lips lift at the corners, eyes drifting to Steve’s mouth. _Men,_ Steve thinks. _Always thinking with their cocks._  
  
A wasted blonde girl stops at the bar and yells her order, makes the bartender sigh in resignation and leave to cater to her.   
  
Steve lifts his glass. Then sips at its contents, smacks his mouth, takes another sip, lets it settle. He hums. “Château Lafite Rothschild,” he murmurs thoughtfully, “rich son of a bitch.”  
  
He rises from his seat and walks over to the back, where the two guards stand. Looking as obvious as ever. Ray Bans propped on the bridge of their noses and bodies clad in fitted black tuxes. It’s amusing, how they think they’re _subtle_ when they stand out like a sore thumb. With their stupid holier than thou posture.   
  
Steve stops in front of the shorter one, taking pride in the few inches he has on both of them as he holds his hands behind his back. The guy’s shoulders square and he shares a glance, inscrutable to any onlookers, with the other.  
  
“I think it’s best you let me through,” Steve states with mustered up confidence. “Boss’s orders.”  
  
When the other guy lifts his hand to his earpiece and murmurs into it, Steve sighs, playing _impatient_. Rolls his eyes, shifts his weight. “What? Need the _magic word?”_ he asks. “Because I can go back to the bar and get his _Château Lafite Rothschild,_ but I’m sure he wouldn’t like it if I told him his _lap dogs_ aren’t treating his guestsright, huh?”  
  
Thing is, Steve _knows_ that even if the subtle _magic words_ he snuck in there are wrong, he’s going to end up in the boss’s presence. The only question here is whether he’ll meet him _with_ his dignity or stripped of it.  
  
That thought’s quickly discarded when both men step back and lower their heads like they’re _ashamed_ or something. _Open fucking sesame_. Steve stifles a smirk, licking over it to melt it down into a smile, all poise despite how jittery he’s getting with every step.

They escort him through a small corridor that smells of Aramis and something headier Steve can’t quite place, his heart beating a thousand beats a second. He’s a dead man, willingly walking to the gallows. “Billy’s inside.”  
  
The mood inside is different. Calmer. A low, sultry song seems like it’s being murmured off the vintage paintings covering the walls. Most of them are _lewd_. Men pressed to men and women pressed to women. Decanters serve as ornaments, scattered all over the room like The Boss, _Billy,_ can’t stand a second without a drink in hand.  
  
Steve doesn’t waste any more time and strides further into the room, and into the next. He’s not sure what he’s thinking as he walks, but he knows that it all turns to white noise once he lays eyes on the scene before him.  
  
Arms splayed across the back of a velvet-clad sofa, a cigarette between thin lips, a glass of _Château Lafite Rothschild_ in one hand. And his other hand? _Billy’s_ other hand’s tangled in hair; the hair of a guy kneeling on the floor, head bobbing between his legs.  
  
That’s. Well. _Unexpected_. To put it lightly.  
  
And surprisingly, it’s _not_ what snatches the air right out of Steve’s lungs. His loss of breath is caused by the _danger_ of it.   
  
Seeing him, head tilted back, and eyes shut, so ensnared in his own pleasure that he’s lost track of anything else. It’s powerful and _scary;_ how he’s daring anyone to take advantage of his vulnerable state.   
  
Steve’s lips part, suddenly dry. He licks over them. Watches as the boss disentangles his hand from the man’s hair to pull his cigarette out of his mouth and sip at his drink like a posh _fuck._ Laughs with breathless pleasure, smoothing ringed fingers through the man’s hair with a murmured _easy down there._  
  
“Ahem,” Steve harrumphs pointedly. Mostly driven by his want to _disrupt_ the atmosphere the dude’s built for himself in here.  
  
It takes Billy a handful of seconds to open his eyes and lull his head to the side. And _Jesus Christ,_ this guy’s _young._ Barely older than Steve himself. Maybe fucking _younger._ He smiles, a little gentle, a lot flirty. Steve waits for the _alarm_ to cross his features because _what_ is Steve doing here?  
  
It doesn’t come, though. Billy sizes Steve up with lazy eyes before bringing a hand down to pull his pleasurer off his dick. The guy, all stubble and muscle and tattoos, aims a glare at Steve, like Steve was ruining _his_ fun, not _The Boss’s._ He stands up and walks away.   
  
Billy tucks himself in. Then he looks at Steve and gestures for the sofa opposite his. “Well,” he says. “Sit down.”

Steve can’t help the petty disappointment that rises in him at Billy’s _blasé_ reaction to his unexpected visit. He walks further into the room. “Not here to _gossip,”_ he states petulantly.  
  
Billy smiles. Nods once. Sits up and places his empty glass on the table centering the room, flicks his cigarette into the wine dregs inside. Then he pulls a gun out and places it next to it.  
  
It’s a subtle threat.  
  
Steve sits down, jaw working as Billy reclines, lifting the ankle of one foot onto the opposite thigh. “Cool rug,” Steve points at the spot the guy was kneeling in moments before. “Persian?”  
  
Billy huffs a nasal breath. “Said you’re not here to _gossip,_ then you wax lyrical about my _carpet_?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Steve hides his nerves by leaning back into the cushions. “I’m here to find someone.”  
  
Billy nods once. “Everyone’s _here to_ _find someone,”_ he states dryly, extending an arm over the back of the couch again. “Like I’m fucking _yellow pages._ If you’re here for Brenner, you’ve come to the wrong place, sweetheart. _”  
  
_Steve shakes his head. “Not Brenner.”  
  
Billy blinks. Urging him to elaborate.  
  
“Neil Hargrove,” Steve amends.  
  
Billy’s brows rise. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he laughs, wild and _demeaning._ He throws his head back, traps his tongue between his teeth like Steve told the funniest joke. Steve waits, unamused.  
  
“You wanna find Neil Hargrove?” Billy finally says, words scattered between breathless chuckles. “You serious?”  
  
Steve shrugs. “Deadly,” he answers. “Don’t get why you’d think it’s funny, though.”  
  
Billy inhales deeply and waves a ringed hand as if to say _not going to get into that._ “What do you want from him?”  
  
Steve sets his jaw, looking away briefly. Makes Billy tilt his head in a vain attempt at catching his eye. “Y’wanna kill him?”  
  
_Yes._ “No.”  
  
“Then what is it?” Billy prompts. “Wanna _work_ for him?”  
  
“I don’t _work_ for _anyone,”_ Steve spits.  
  
Billy lifts his head, lips set into a straight line. He studies Steve for a long moment, then brings himself to his feet and ambles over to the closest decanter. “Drink?”  
  
“Sure.” Steve takes advantage of Billy’s distraction and exhales shakily. When they’d told him about a high-powered, resourceful man who has eyes and ears everywhere, Steve had expected a white-haired man, withered with age, with a leering gaze for every woman who’s young enough to be his granddaughter. This. This is just _cruel_. Fuck off.  
  
“How did you get in?” Billy asks conversationally.  
  
“Relevancy,” Steve replies. His eyes travel over the room, memorizing every little detail in case it comes in handy. “Clubs serve drinks and fucks. You’re... no offense, but I’ve heard you’re quite a _lothario_. Wouldn’t expect you to know the name of every notch on your...very long bedpost.”  
  
Billy’s back stays to him, but Steve can see his shoulders shake lightly with waves of throaty laughter.  
  
“So. Drink it is,” Steve continues. “Found out what your favorite drink is and voilà. Your bartender’s pretty gullible, by the way.”  
  
Billy turns around and walks over to let Steve pluck his glass out of his hand. He doesn’t say anything, so Steve takes his silence as finality. “So? Do you know where he is?” he asks.  
  
In lieu of an answer, Billy steps forward. Presses the toe of his leather boot to Steve’s shoelaces and pulls, _undoing_ them. And. Steve doesn’t _know_ what he’s trying to do when he gets on his knees. If he also thinks with his _cock_ or if it’s just politeness, and everything he’s heard about Billyare just _lies_.  
  
Billy does Steve’s shoelaces up and smiles up at him. “There.”  
  
Steve nods his thanks. “So. Neil?”  
  
Billy regards him for a moment longer, eyes disarming as they drift over his face. “Right,” he stands back up. Moves out of the way to let Steve lean forward and put his glass down. “I’ll help you.”  
  
“What’s the catch?”  
  
“You mentioned you’re not working for anyone,” Billy starts, evasive. At Steve’s cock of brow, he elaborates. “How about–”  
  
Steve cuts him short with a laugh, a bitter ‘ahaha’ that makes Billy’s brows furrow. “When I complimented your rug, I didn’t mean I wanted to _kneel down_ on it with my mouth between your _thighs_.”  
  
The lines between Billy’s thick brows smoothen out and he looks away, chuckling quietly to himself. “Get your head out of the gutter, sweetheart. I was going to offer you to work _with_ me. Not _for_ me. Only for a little while,” he uses his fingers to indicate the _little while_ he’s speaking of.   
  
Steve hums, squints an eye, plays contemplative. “I have a better idea,” he finally says, bringing himself to his feet. He takes the gun in hand, holds it between his index fingers with a scowl. He doesn’t _point it,_ just shows it to Billy. “You tell me where Neil is, aaand I won’t decorate your interior with _your_ interior.”  
  
Then, Steve taps on the seal burnt into the side of the gun. “This is Hargrove’s,” he states. “You working for him?”  
  
And–  
  
Billy looks _impressed._ He looks Steve over, pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes. It’s fucking _defusing,_ Steve feels hotter under his gaze, feels captive as Billy steps in closer, unafraid, _challenging._ “What’s your name?”  
  
“Steve,” Steve answers steadily.  
  
Billy’s mouth does a thing, like he’s sucking on candy, draining it of flavor. Tasting Steve’s name. “ _Family_ name.”  
  
A muscle in Steve’s jaw feathers. His palms get clammy and his throat bobs and Billy _notices,_ a slow smirk _draping_ across his face _._ “I found you out?” he asks, rhetorical _._ “I knelt at your feet, showed _inferiority._ Any other person would’ve looked away,” his next step is countered by a backwards one from Steve.“So. Tell me, _Steve_... who’s your daddy?”  
  
Steve swallows, heat flooding down to the small of his back. “Never said I wasn’t–” he manages, voice guttural with shame? Fear? He’s not sure. But it makes Billy smug all the same. “Where is he?” Steve _points_ the gun this time, scrambling to hang onto the reins.  
  
He strides closer.   
  
Gets Billy up against the wall before he’s pressing the gun to his throat. It bobs under the muzzle. And Billy, unfazed, says “Let’s strike a deal, _sweetheart._ Gimme three shots at guessin’ your family name. I lose, I’ll tell you everythin’ you wanna know. I _win,”_ he tuts his tongue, communicating his sympathy. His _condolences_.  
  
Steve nods, barely detectable.  
  
“Blackwell?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Bianchi? You’ve got that sexy _Italian_ vibe goin’ on,” Billy knocks his head back against the wall and wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist to adjust the position of the gun. Steve ignores the coolness of rings against his heated skin. Billy’s hand lingers, thumb pressed into Steve’s wrist. Feeling his pulse point in search of a lie.  
  
“No,” Steve breathes.  
  
Billy leans forward, mouth ghosting over Steve’s. “Maybe…” he whispers between them, voice damp against his lips. “…Steve _Harrington_ has a ring to it, don’t you think?”  
  
_Thump thump thump thump-thump-thump-thump  
  
_“Checkmate,” Billy grins, leaning away. He doesn’t retrieve his gun or headbutt Steve or call his blockhead security guards. He doesn’t even move, eyes hooded and fixed on Steve’s. Steve’s at a loss. Keeps him at gunpoint.  
  
Billy grins, laughing through his teeth. Then he–  
  
He draws Steve’s hand up by the wrist, not breaking eye contact as he licks _into_ the muzzle. Steve’s breath stutters, finger trembling on the trigger and heart snagging on a beat. Billy has the nerve to _smirk,_ to wrap his smirk around the gun and use his hold on Steve’s wrist to thrust it in and out of his mouth. Steve’s blood rushes south so quick he feels _dizzy_ with it. His lips part, eyes hooding as Billy takes the gun further into his mouth, cheeks hollowing. He’s– he’s moaning, lashes fluttering, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth as he fellates the weapon. Steve can hear him swallow around it. And it’s like he _fucking_ _knows,_ he _knows_ Steve wouldn’t pull the trigger. He can, but he won’t. And the fact he put that kind of power in Steve’s hands makes desire coil tight in Steve’s gut, eyes tracing the saliva dribbling down the sides of Billy’s chin.  
  
Billy's pulling off, eyes not once leaving Steve’s. A string of spit connects his lips to the gun and when he moves back too far, it sticks to his chin. And it’s supposed to be _disgusting_. But Steve’s straining against the front of his pants and his whole body’s on _fire.  
  
_“Your last name answered a lot of my questions,” Billy says. Irrelevant. Feels like a bucket of water.“You get _one_ question, sweetheart. Make it worthwhile.”  
  
Steve clears his throat. “Um,” _Where’s Neil? Do you work for him? What’s his weak spot? Do you suck cock that well?_ He clears his throat again, swallowing to wet his vocal cords. “Why– Why do you have this?”  
  
There’s a hum in the breath Billy lets out. His voice is scratchy when he says, “It’s the same gun he shoved down my throat when he caught me balls deep inside a man.” Steve tries to be furtive when he reaches down to adjust his dick in his too-tight pants. Billy blinks, lifts a slit brow. “Fucker didn’t know I’m lackin’ a gag reflex.”  
  
Doesn’t exactly answer Steve’s question.  
  
Billy slides a hand down Steve’s forearm, wraps it around his hand, then around the spit-slick barrel. Steve lets go without much of a fight. Pleased fondness lifts Billy’s lips at the corner. He wanders past him and sits down on the couch, the same spot Steve found him in. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, Steve,” he says, turning his head to point a sharp grin at him, feels more dangerous than the weapon in his hand. “Name’s Billy. Billy Hargrove.”


End file.
